Van life™

In a supermarket car park outside Shkodër, I woke at 3am needing to shit. The bucket was three feet away. I used it, sealed the lid, and lay back down next to the smell of myself while a dog barked somewhere in the dark. This is van life.

I’ve spent the last 6 months travelling Europe in a self-converted campervan. The typical van-lifer is a mid-30s former white-collar worker looking for nature, travel, and an exit from whatever they were doing before. They likely converted during the first Covid lockdown. This is a departure from the original campervan crowd - retired couples in off-the-shelf motorhomes, seeing the world on a schedule.

Travelling in a van is a great way to see Europe. Especially on a budget, since accommodation is usually a traveller’s largest expense. You move intuitively, slowing down when somewhere surprises you, rather than racing through an itinerary. Many of the best places are only accessible by private transport. And van life forces integration with your destination in ways you wouldn’t choose - I’ve had more conversations with mechanics and auto electricians than with anyone else.

But life in a van is violently romanticised on Instagram. So here are the things they don’t post, in descending obviousness:

• You shit in a bucket. If you’re lucky, it’s a fancy bucket with a seal and a vent. You still have to empty it. You learn which car parks have toilets. You learn to time your body.
• You don’t make long-term friends. You meet lovely people living the same way, but paths diverge. Everyone is always leaving. After a while, you stop exchanging numbers.
• You spend hours on van-specific chores that don’t exist in normal travel or normal life. Finding water. Filling the tank. Cooking with a tiny fridge and no counter space. Cold showers, infrequent showers, no showers. Washing dishes is the worst part of every day. Keeping the van clean is a war you’re always losing.

Van life is a trade-off. You offer time, comfort, and space in exchange for freedom - or whatever you’re calling the thing you couldn’t find at home.

I’m back in a flat now. Hot showers. A toilet that flushes. Dishes take two minutes.

I don’t miss the van. But I do miss the moment before turning the key - no destination, no deadline, just a road and a blind conviction that something good comes next.